


It's Where My Demons Hide

by KassandraScarlett



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Lucifer Possessing Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Mutual Pining, Pre-Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27247261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassandraScarlett/pseuds/KassandraScarlett
Summary: With Amara once again locked away, Sam now bears the Mark of Cain. With Chuck's ominous warning, the apprehension of the Mark's corruption, and the threat of Lucifer, there are too many impending changes for the brothers.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 26
Kudos: 72





	1. Like Damocles' Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to AnotherWriterWhoWrites, for being so infinitely patient with me and helping through every speed bump. This fic would not have been possible without her.

Amara was screaming. There was a part of Dean that wanted to go to her, wanted to try and protect her. It was a fairly small part compared to the rest of him, which wanted nothing more than to take Sam away from here somehow. 

Sam, who was kneeling on the floor, clutching his own arm with a tight grimace as the Mark of Cain- Amara's Mark- was being burnt onto his skin. 

There was a sound like paper tearing. Dean looked away from Sam just in time and watched, half-awed and half-scared, as the space around Amara seemed to split. Amara dissolved into wisps of dark smoke and disappeared. There was a flash of light, the split closed itself, and everything was over. 

The reluctant concern Dean had been feeling towards the primordial entity suddenly vanished.

Sam's shoulders relaxed and he slumped, listing sideways. Dean caught him, supporting his weight against his own body. He looked up again. Chuck was standing still, in the same spot. His eyes were downcast, but Dean could see the glimmer of tears in them.

"It's over," Lucifer said. 

Dean looked up at where he stood, lance held loosely in his hand, his face- Cas' face- somber and relieved at the same time. 

Chuck nodded. "Yeah. It is." He swallowed, looking up to the ceiling and blinking fast. "You should leave that body now, son. Castiel will be wanting his autonomy back."

Lucifer hesitated for a second. "Let's talk about that later. Firstly, what are you going to do now?"

Chuck shrugged. "Go somewhere. Someplace where I won't…" He sighed. 

Lucifer sounded angry when he next spoke. "So, you're just leaving? Again? Really?" He demanded. "Heaven needs you. What if I try to take over?"

Chuck smiled, half-sad and half-indulgent. "I hope you won't," he said wistfully. "I would even pray, if there was anyone for me to pray to. But I do hope. And if, by any chance, you do-" He looked towards Sam and Dean. "-I'm leaving the world in good hands."

Lucifer might have argued, might have begged. No one would know, because Chuck waved a hand with a quickly muttered apology. Lucifer disappeared. 

Dean wanted to ask about Cas, but he couldn't. Not until he was sure Sam was okay. Right on cue, Sam nudged him. "Dude. I'm okay. Relax a bit, you're still tense."

Taken aback, Dean slowly loosened his grip on Sam's shoulders, helping him stand inside. Just then, the door opened and Rowena and Crowley stumbled in, the former looking worse for wear, her blue dress blackened with soot and smudges of ash on her fair face. Crowley, on the other hand, looked impeccable as ever. 

"Is it over then?" Rowena asked. 

Chuck nodded, but watched as Sam approached him. "You're really leaving?"

"Yeah, what about us?" Dean asked. 

"There are other worlds that need checking into sometimes, you know," Chuck told them. 

Sam actually perked up, the dork. "Wait, really? Like parallel realities? That's a thing?"

Luckily, Chuck found this dorkiness adorable- he damn better- and smiled. It faded quickly. "Sam, the Mark… You know what's going to happen. Some things might be different, but the gist will be the same."

Sam nodded. "It'll make me want to kill Dean," he said and Dean wondered how he was being calm about this. 

Chuck looked at Dean. "No matter what happens, promise neither of you will try to remove it again."

Dean looked him in the eye. "Promise."

Chuck's eyes narrowed. He straightened. "Promise me, Dean," he ordered. There was a weight to his voice, an added reverb. 

Dean felt goosebumps up his arms. "I promise not to try and remove the Mark in any way." He could almost feel the slight change in the air, like his words were being woven into an iron-clad contract. 

Chuck turned back to Sam. "Don't try to pass it on either," he said, voice back to normal. "There…" He sighed. "There really is no one better suited than you, Sam." There was something simultaneously sad and hopeful in the way he looked right now. 

Sam had just enough time to open his mouth to reply, before Chuck disappeared. Just like that. Gone. 

"Well," Crowley cleared his throat. "He certainly likes his drama."

For a minute or so, they all stood in silence. Dean looked at Crowley, wary. It occurred to him that he really, really needed to get Sam away from the King of Hell. 

"Despite God's assurance," Crowley said primly. "I have no doubt at all that Lucifer will continue to make trouble for us."

"Well, obviously," Rowena trilled, rolling her eyes. "He's the Devil, Fergus, what could you expect?"

"And he's still got Cas' vessel," Sam sighed. "I mean, who knows what's happening to him in there."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Crowley said. "He seemed quite at peace, watching telly in the kitchen of your bunker. He said that Lucifer mainly leaves him alone."

Dean watched as Sam seemed, for a very small fraction of a second, to get angry. It was gone so fast he might as well have imagined it. 

"I guess he doesn't exactly have much reason to hurt Cas," he said instead. No, there was definitely a tone of bitterness in there. Dean could tell, even if no one else could. 

"Does the Devil need a reason to hurt someone?" Crowley asked testily. 

Sam glared right back. "He's pragmatic, above everything else. He humiliated you to gain loyalty and support. He killed Rowena because she was a loose end and a flight risk. He hasn't hurt Cas yet in case he ever needs leverage against us. So unless Cas really pisses him off, Lucifer will leave him alone."

Crowley scoffed dismissively, but definitely cowed. Rowena, on the other hand, stared at Sam, almost calculatingly. 

Dean decided it was time to speak up. "Okay, look, whatever needs to be done about Lucifer, we will start dealing with it later. Together, if necessary. But we just saved the world, God's fucked off again, and Cas isn't getting hurt anytime soon. We can take a damn break. So, until then, thank you for coming, we couldn't have done it without you, and all that jazz. Hope to see you not so soon." He grabbed Sam's arm, smiled big and fake. "Bye."

Sam didn't protest, silent as Dean basically dragged him out the backdoor. The car was where they'd left it, thankfully far away from where it could have been damaged in their tussle with Amara. Dean watched Sam get comfortable, then gunned it. He drove fast and reckless, mind a whirl of uncertainty and worry and a tiny nugget of fear. 

After ten minutes, Sam was tapping at his arm. "Dean, slow down, man. You'll skid."

He was going over ninety, he realized. The roads were empty, thank god. Wow, that had become weird to say. He slowed down, pulling over to the shoulder of the highway. Dean let out a huge breath, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. 

"Dean? You okay?"

Dean lifted his head slightly, turning to look at Sam in disbelief. "Seriously? You're asking me that?"

The wide-eyed concern turned to confusion and exasperation. "What do you mean?"

Dean sat up. "I mean, what the hell are we going to do?"

Sam blinked. "Well… The world isn't broken. Far as we know. I was thinking, like you said, we could take a break."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm talking about the shiny new tattoo on your arm," he said, exaggeratedly slow. "You know, Mark of Cain? Original curse? Makes the bearer go all Billy Loomis? The bearer who happens to be you now? Any of this ringing a bell?"

Sam didn't answer immediately, looking down at his arm instead. Dean followed his gaze, swallowing at the way the Mark seemed to glow even in the late afternoon. 

"Dean," Sam said softly. "We should take a break. We've been running ourselves into the ground the last few months, with Amara and Lucifer in the wind. We need to take a breather." He unfolded the sleeves of his flannel, buttoning the cuffs at his wrists so the Mark was hidden. "We can deal with this after."

It was like role-reversal. Usually, Dean was the one trying to get away from the problem, avoid thinking about it, stay in denial until it goes away or strikes with a vengeance. And Sam would be the one wanting to deal with it headfirst, get it over with so he could move on to whatever came next. 

But this was different. Dean couldn't ignore the fact that, in a few months time, he would be on the constant lookout for his brother trying to kill him in a sudden fit of irrational anger. 

"Sammy," he started. 

But Sam just shook his head. "Please," he sighed. "We just… I've spent weeks afraid I was gonna lose you to her. And then we had to share space with Lucifer... I need a break, Dean. Please."

Dean shut his eyes and turned away. He started the car. "You get two weeks. After that, it's healthy living for you. No late nights. No alcohol. No red meat. No Jeopardy."

"What does Jeopardy have to do with this?" Sam's smile was audible in his voice.

"You start yelling at the TV when they get easy questions wrong," Dean told him flatly. "No Jeopardy. And find us a place on the beach."

"We do need to stop at the bunker, though," Sam reminded him. "You know, to pack. I want to bring a few books. I can finally get some reading done."

Dean groaned. "You're not supposed to read on vacation, Sammy. You're supposed to have fun."

"Uh-huh. Sure."


	2. The Oncoming Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I said updates on every other day, but I just... Forgot. Sorry XD

They'd talked about a vacation many times over the years, always fantasizing about kicking back on a beach, playing hooky in Vegas, or just going camping. 

They'd tried to do it once, too, right after Sam had cured Dean of demon-ism. But it had only lasted a long weekend, what with the Mark clamouring for action. Dean had brought it up again afterwards. _Sand in our toes, Sammy._

But now, they were holed up in a private beach house in Sandbridge Beach, Virginia, isolated with no one around for miles, monsters or otherwise. 

And within six days, Dean had been reminded of the very big, glaring, neon red reason why he subconsciously avoided taking too many off-days in one go. 

"Dude," Sam sighed, coming in and closing the front door of their little cabin. "Why did you have to give me such a complicated last name?"

"Because you look nothing like Isabella Flynn," Dean answered without opening his eyes. 

He could feel Sam come to stand on the sun desk and knew without looking that he was frowning lightly. "Isabella Flynn isn't a real person."

"Of course not, I made her up. And I made her up with green eyes and freckles, which makes her my mother, not yours."

He felt Sam’s feet kick against his chair. “Fuck off,” he said amiably.

Dean frowned too, opening his eyes and squinting up at his brother. “Hey, hey, be nice! My poor widowed mother is the one paying for this pre-wedding honeymoon for her beloved son and his to-be husband.” Used to be that Dean would get awkward and uncomfortable when people assumed he was banging his little brother. It took him years to realize that Sam just didn’t care about it. Now, they actively used it to their advantage.

Sam just rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “Well, someone oughtta tell her that her son is an idiot,” he retorted and started walking back in. On the way, he knocked his hand lightly against Dean’s head. “Don’t stay in the sun too long,” he warned. “You always burn up.” His knuckles trailed mindlessly against his neck, then disappeared into the cabin.

Dean sat frozen, his skin tingling with electricity where Sam had touched him.

_Right_. This was the reason he avoided vacations.

Sam always, without fail, carried tension in his frame, had done so since he was a kid. Even in the bunker, where he was marginally more relaxed, he was always somewhat prepared, always ready for a fight, ready to leave for a hunt.

But on vacations, with no monsters around and none of their so few friends dropping in, he always seemed to unwind more completely. Loose-limbed, straying fingers, single tee-shirt and sweatpants instead of the layers upon layers of flannel and denim and leather. He got more tactile, his smiles came easier. He was easier to read. He was quicker to laugh at stupid jokes and play along with them. And he got a certain kick out of idly ordering Dean around, payback for all the times Dean had disturbed him from his research with inane demands.

And Dean, head-over-heels for most of his life, would happily comply with only obligatory bitching, greedy for all those smiles and touches that were never really enough for him.

So, yeah, Dean was wary of vacations, because he could never shake off the fear that he might, one day, slip up somehow- stare a little too long, speak a little too softly, or just get drunk and kiss him. There was always the fear that Sam would simply look at him at the wrong moment and all of Dean’s screwed up feelings would be written over his face.

It was a total fucking nightmare, to be honest.

Dean forced himself to abandon his thoughts. This vacation was mainly for Sam’s benefit and ruminating about his doomed existence would only cause him to spiral into darker, more self-hating thoughts, which Sam could always somehow pick up on.  _ (See, Sam? I am self-aware.)  _

He could get through this, he told himself. It was only one more week. And then they'd get back to work. One week. 7 days. He could do this. 

Naturally, things went wrong two days later.

Dean came out of the shower to find an empty room. He panicked for exactly five seconds, Sammy's name on the tip of his tongue. Then he noticed the note laying on his pillow, with Sam's scrawling handwriting.  _ Gone to the bar. See you here.  _

The paper crinkled under his fingers as he thought. Sam going to a bar? Without Dean's cajoling? Weird. Was the Mark starting to act up? 

That would definitely make sense. It also meant bad news. 

Dean got dressed quickly. The only bar around here was a twenty minutes walk from their cabin. As Dean entered, he surveyed the place automatically for Sam. 

He spotted him at the pool table. He was playing, not hustling, against a younger man with a small, but slightly condescending smile, who obviously had actual skill.

Sam caught him staring, raised a hand in silent greeting as his opponent racked the balls.

Dean nodded back, walked to the counter, hopping up on a stool with one eye still on Sam. "Hey… Whitney," he read the name off the bartender's name tag and gave her a quick wink. "Whiskey for me, please."

She returned his smile, though looking slightly amused. Dean turned back to the game, found Sam speaking intently in low, hushed tones to a sweet-looking redhead. As Dean watched, the girl smirked up at Sam, sharp and challenging, and Sam blushed lightly, before replying. Whatever he said definitely worked in his favor because the girl laughed, patting Sam's arm in camaraderie. 

_ Way to go, Sammy,  _ Dean thought, only a little bitter. Sure, he had mildly incestuous feelings for this very off-limits person, but hey, he was also a big brother, first and foremost. He was proud, and kinda relieved, to know that Sam could, in fact, charm a girl without making a fool of himself. 

He still couldn't quite look away when the redhead tugged Sam into a quick kiss. Sam, visibly surprised and caught off-guard, said something that made her pout and step back. He glanced at Dean's reaction. Dean held his gaze, then shook his head in mock disappointment  _ (how could you not see she was flirting?) _ . Sam seemed to roll his eyes, but then the man he was playing against stole his attention, saying something. Dean could only hear his short, rough laughter, but Sam stiffened. He gestured to the pool table. 

"That your boy?" Whitney the bartender asked. 

Dean took a sip of his drink, the word  _ brother _ sweet and sour on his tongue. "Fiance," he said. _Always keep the story the same with the locals._

The bartender hummed, placing a small wooden bowl of pretzels in front of him. "Surprised you're not there fighting all other suitors off, with a face like his."

Dean shrugged. "Sam doesn't like me speaking for him," he told her. "Used to do it when he was a kid; he wouldn't talk to me the rest of the night." He sneaked a look anyway. The younger man had broken, but now Sam was finishing up the game with quick, precise aim, while the redhead watched with a look of clear admiration. 

Whitney looked interested now. "Oh, you guys grew up together? That's so sweet."

Another common lie. It was the closest to the truth.

"And anyway, don't worry about Rachel," she went on. "I know her pretty well. She just likes to flirt, putting on a show."

Dean tilted an eyebrow. "For who?" He asked, more to keep his mind off Sam  _ (hair in his eyes, fingers wrapped around the cue, teeth digging into lower li-) _ than actual curiosity. 

Whitney returned his wink from earlier. "For me. We have an arrangement."

Dean chuckled, enjoyed the mental image her words brought up for a second, then raised his glass to her in an appreciative toast. Then Sam appeared next to him. 

"Hey," he greeted, clapping Dean's shoulder. His hand lingered, fingers sliding down his arm. 

_ It's just for show, just to keep up the pretense,  _ Dean told himself. 

"Saw the game?"

Dean nodded. "Think you may have bruised that guy's ego."

Sam shot a look towards the pool table. "Yeah, well, he was a bigoted ass. So, why the hell not?"

Dean took care not to react. Sam, being so open about his dislike of someone? Yeah, something was up. 

"Want a drink?" He asked, ready to call Whitney’s name.

For a second, he thought Sam would actually agree. But after a brief moment of consideration, Sam shook his head. Dean breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Hey, dude!"

They turned together, found Sam's opponent from the game. He looked irritated, the beginnings of anger in his eyes. 

"You hustled me," the guy complained. 

Sam frowned. "No. No, I really didn't."

Dean could feel the way Sam's hand, still on his shoulder, clenched into a tight fist. 

The man glowered. He was swaying. Drunk. "Come on, man. Just give me my money back."

Sam threw a helpless,  _ can you believe this guy?  _ look at Dean, who shrugged and got to his feet. 

"Listen, kid," he started. "I was watching that game. There was definitely no hustling going on."

The guy scowled. "I'm not a kid."

"Then don't act like one," the redhead from before arrived- Rachel- and cut in. "Let it go, Jonathan. Sam here won that game fair and square." The sweetness Dean had spotted was gone, replaced by a stern gaze. 

"Oh, shut up, Rachel," the man snapped. "The guy's a fag, an  _ engaged _ fag. He's not sleeping with you, so you can stop sucking up to him."

Rachel stood firm, but Sam and Dean both bristled at the words.

“Hey, buddy?” Sam’s tone was hard, dangerous. “Back off. Now.”

Jonathan leaned forward, getting into their space, a sneer on his face. Dean could smell the alcohol on him and reached behind carefully, finding the nearly empty bowl of pretzels. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was better than breaking glass or drawing his gun.

Except Rachel stepped between them again. She placed a hand on Jonathan's chest. "Let it go, Jon. Please."

It happened too fast. Jonathan, drunk and angry, shoved Rachel harshly. She stumbled, tipping backwards in her heels and Dean abandoned the bowl to catch her. There was a loud crash and a cut off yell of pain. 

Dean, holding Rachel's arm to let her balance herself, looked back to a sight that scared him. Sam had slammed Jonathan's head into the countertop, judging by the ugly gash on his forehead. Now, he had the much shorter man in a firm chokehold, effectively suffocating him. 

That wasn't what scared Dean. What scared him was the hollow, blank look in Sam's eyes, the way his mouth was set in the beginnings of a sneer, and the fact that Sam still hadn't let go of the  _ civilian _ . 

"Sam," Dean called, his own voice strong despite his uncertainty. "Sammy, that's enough, man. He ain't worth it."

For a second, Sam didn't react. Then he let go, shoving Jonathan away from himself.

The bar was silent. Rachel looked somewhere between awed and scared, Whitney was as shocked and upset as the rest of the crowd. Jonathan was bent in half, gasping for breath. 

Dean grabbed Sam's arm, sent an apologetic smile Whitney's way, and dragged his brother out of the bar. 

The twenty minutes walk was over in fifteen, neither of them speaking or looking at each other. Dean slammed the door shut and whirled on Sam. 

"What the hell?!" He demanded. "What was that back there?"

Sam looked shaken now. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing up and down his right arm. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I don't know. Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean stared at him. 

Sam had closed his eyes, taking long, deep breaths. When he opened them, he looked calmer. "I'm sorry," he said again, softly. "It's just… Being here, all relaxed… I let my guard down."

Dean felt his own guilt kick in. Damn it, he knew how this worked! He knew the Mark didn't like inaction, didn't like complacency. 

"What do you wanna do?" He asked. 

Sam looked around the room. "Go back home. Back to work." He sighed. 

"Tomorrow?" Dean asked. 

Sam nodded, biting his lip in thought. 

Since their cover was an engaged couple, their little beach house had come with one bedroom. One bed. 

So, that night- for the last time until whenever next there would only be one bed available- Dean crawled in beside his brother. Sam was already fast asleep and Dean took the chance to look his fill. 

Right now, Sam's face, smooth and free of worry, gave no indication that there was a cursed brand on his arm. He looked peaceful, eyelashes a dark smudge on the apple of his cheeks and lips delicately parted. The sparse moonlight from a gap in the curtains highlighted his cheekbones, making him look ethereal and unattainable.

Dean's fingers itched to reach out and trace the line of his jaw. He resisted. Instead he closed his eyes and let the muffled sound of the ocean lull him to sleep. 


	3. History Repeats

"Okay, so get this," Sam started. 

Dean groaned around the too-big piece of toast in his mouth. 

Sam shot him a look of disgusted amusement. "Shut up. Look: Olivia Sanchez walked into church bleeding over her arms and down her back. A priest said that she’d been speaking in a different language, before dying."

Dean swallowed. He frowned slightly at the glass of some sickly green liquid near Sam’s elbow. “The fuck is that? Poison?”

Sam looked at the glass and took a sip. “Kale juice,” he informed. “It’s healthy.”

“Keep that thing away from me,” Dean told him seriously, backing away slightly.

Sam sighed. “Dean…”

"Cause of death?"

Sam looked back at the laptop. "The wounds looked like they’d been caused by a whip. She had holes punctured through her hands and feet and pinprick wounds around the top of her skull."

"Stigmata," Dean stated.

“It gets weirder. The coroner’s report says that the victim’s skull was filled with goopy mush.”

“Yuck,” Dean commented and kept on eating.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Uh, so, weird wounds, speaking in tongues? Let's go check it out."

Dean chewed thoughtfully, looking at Sam. "You sure you're up for this?" He asked, trying to strike a balance between concerned and nonchalant. "We just got back yesterday afternoon from three back-to-back cases."

“And I haven’t had a single incident since coming back from our vacation,” Sam pointed out.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You threatened the witness when he was crying over his dead wife.”

“He was obviously lying about something.”

“You were rude to the cop I was chatting with.”

“You mean ‘ _flirting with_ ’. It was a waste of time, I had to get rid of her.”

Sam looked completely earnest and it made Dean rub a hand over his face. “Look, I’m just saying that maybe you should be more careful. Chuck had said some things would be different for you and we still don’t know what he meant by that.” He cast a heated glare at Sam’s arm. 

It had been around a month since he'd gotten the Mark. By now, Sam should have been losing his temper and growing sullen. But… Maybe all that hippie living was actually making a difference. 

Sam spread his hands. "What else are we gonna do? I'm already doing yoga and meditation, but I'm not gonna sit on my ass waiting for the Mark to start screaming. Metaphorically."

Dean blinked. "You meditate."

"What do you think I'm doing at six-thirty in the morning?"

"Running?"

“You think I run for almost four hours?”

Dean shrugged.

Sam rolled his eyes. "No, Dean. I come back and meditate and do yoga."

Dean made a face, decidedly not thinking about Sam and yoga. "Whatever, Dalai Lama. Let's go."

* * *

In hindsight, the second the CPS worker told them about how Magda Peterson died and Sam's face went tight and pinched, Dean should have known better than to take Sam along to the Petersons. 

He should have made him go snoop around Beth some more, but Sammy had insisted and Dean couldn’t really articulate a reason to refuse him, nothing more than a clench of the gut and a sense of foreboding.

“God took Magda away from us,” Mrs Peterson was saying in response to Sam’s tirade. “It was His Will. Because it was her time. She did not belong in this world anymore. Why would I kill my own daughter?”

So, really, Dean had only himself to blame when Sam actually growled at the woman who was apparently responsible for this whole wacky family to come and live out here in the woods. 

“Because you’re stupid enough to think that God cares," Sam told her. "Trust me, he doesn't. Magda didn’t have to die."

Dean couldn't see Sam's face, but the tenseness in his shoulders was a sign of clear and present danger. 

He stepped forward before the woman could continue the argument. "Thank you for your time, ma'am," he interjected smoothly. He placed a warning hand on Sam's shoulder. "And we're sorry for interrupting your day. We'll be going now."

It took considerable effort not to look back to make sure that Sam was actually following him. But he did sigh once they reached their car. "You okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "No. I wanna go back and punch her, but that would be rude, illegal and against the rules."

"No attacking civilians," Dean murmured said rule to himself. He popped open the trunk. "Okay, well. You wanna go after Beth now or after dinner?" He asked, finding their witch-killing bullets. 

Sam cocked his head curiously. "She's not a witch. We're not hunting a witch."

Dean blinked. "Uh, what else could she be?"

"No, Dean, we aren't hunting _her_ ," Sam said incredulously. 

"She obviously killed Sanchez because she wanted the job, this family has got nothing to do with that," Dean pointed out. "It's textbook."

"And what about the grocery delivery boy?"

Dean paused. Why _would_ she have killed that guy? "I don't know yet, we’ll find out before we kill her."

Sam rubbed his temple. "Dean. It's a ghost. Come on, a teenage girl killed by her parents' negligence? She's pissed off and now she's killing people who could have helped her but didn't. Like Sanchez. And maybe she knew the delivery boy somehow. She might actually target her mom next."

"There were no signs of ghost activity in there," Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You know what? You go talk to the Wicca. I'll stay here and snoop around some more."

Dean rolled his eyes too. “Yeah, like I’m gonna let you go off alone in this condition.”

“Jesus fucki- I’m _okay_!” Sam insisted, annoyance creeping into his tone. “Seriously, this isn’t like that thing you do where you say you’re fine and pretend everything’s okay, even though everyone can tell you’re _not_ fine and _nothi_ -”

“I don’t do that!”

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam repeated, forcibly calming down. “But you can’t smother me like this, dude, I’ll go nuts. Remember how much you hated it?”

Dean tried to think of a way around it, a way to keep Sam beside him without offending him or making him feel Dean didn’t trust him. He couldn’t find any. “Alright,” he gave in, wearily. “Alright, you keep a lookout here, I’ll go witch-test Little Miss Some-Families-Are-Better-Off-Apart. But the second anything goes wrong-” he fixed Sam with a glare. “-you call me.”

* * *

Sam woke up with his wrists in shackles and a burning sensation in his arm. It had been only an itch for the last month, since he’d received it from Chuck. But ever since hearing about the Peterson’s case from Beth, it had grown in intensity. Right now, it was like a hot iron pressed to his skin.

There was somebody singing, some sort of hymn, and Sam focused on it as he opened his eyes and struggled to sit up, wincing at the flash of pain in his head. The singer was a girl, kneeling a few feet in front of him. Her back was to him and through the torn apart cloth of her flimsy dress, Sam could make out the deep, bloody gashes, stark red against pale skin. 

Magda Peterson should be sixteen years old now. She should be healthy, happy, thriving, complaining about life and doing whatever normal teenagers did. Instead, here she was, chained in a basement, clearly whipped on a daily basis. Sam could count the knobs of her spine even in this darkness, for fuck’s sake.

“Magda Peterson?” He called.

The singing stopped. “That’s not my name,” she whispered. “I’m not Magda. I’m the Devil.”

It was a horror movie situation, but Sam couldn’t help a relieved smile at the confirmation that he was right and Magda really was just a terrified, tortured girl. “No, you’re not. You’re really not.”

A set of hollow eyes above an upturned nose looked sadly at him. “He’s in my head,” she whispered. It sounded like a confession, like a shameful secret. “He lets me hear what other people are thinking. He makes me do things.”

“What kind of things?”

Magda didn’t answer. She looked away, staring at the floor. Sam knew that look on her face, knew it intimately. He had worn it for so long, so many years ago, had seen it every time he’d looked into a mirror- that mix of miserable loathing and hatred, a look that meant both ‘ _please kill me_ ’ and ‘ _please help me._ ’

To see it now, on a face it had no business being on, Sam felt a sudden tightness to his chest. It wasn’t restrained tears or anticipation, but rage. Fury. The urge to find the people responsible for this situation and tear them apart.

But first, he needed to make sure exactly what this girl’s deal was.

“Magda, I’m here to help you,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft and gentle. “Show me what you can do. Please.”

Somehow, she seemed to believe him a little. She turned to face the altar- which Sam was only now noticing- and, as Sam watched, the makeshift cross of twine was lifted into the air, as if pulled by puppet strings.

He breathed out slowly. Okay, he was right. Now, time to convince everyone else involved. “Magda, you’re not the Devil,” he told her firmly. “You’re just psychic. There are others out there who can do these things, just like you. Like _me_!” He added without really thinking it through, hoping some sort of kinship would help soothe her. “I have powers too! I’d get visions and sometimes, I could move things with my mind!” He figured it was best to leave out demons, exorcisms, et cetera.

Magda turned back to him, her features rife with suspicion. “You can do that?”

Sam paused. He didn’t want to lie to her. “Well, no, I _did_ , I used to, but, not anymore… I don’t think.” Even as he said it, Sam could feel the way his stomach tightened, eyes burning for a second. It was a familiar feeling, one he hadn’t felt since the minutes before he’d let Lucifer in. “But that didn’t make me the Devil,” he continued without missing a beat, the memories flashing through too fast to distract him. “That just made me who I am.”

She continued to stare at him. “I can’t hear your thoughts,” she whispered. 

Sam blinked. “Well, yeah…” He thought back to Andy Gallagher, the mind-controlling kid who’d had no effect on him. “Like I said, I used to have powers too,” he said. _And maybe I still do_. “That’s why you can’t hurt me.” It was a risky move, because he didn’t actually have any clue how far his immunity went. Maybe she could kill him if she tried hard enough. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that, not when this could be his only shot at getting her to open up to him. “You can’t hurt me, Magda. And if you could just get a chance to practice and train, you won’t ever hurt anyone else either.”

Slowly, Magda smiled, it was small, timid and uncertain, but it was a smile. Sam relaxed, smiling back without hesitation.

Then the door opened. 

Abraham grabbed him and dragged him. Looking back, Sam could see Elijah being considerably gentler with his sister. Sam tried to focus on that, so he wouldn’t attempt to attack. These people were just civilians, after all. Tied up or not, he could take them. Of course, then they had to go and tie him to a chair.

The anger started to return.

“You daughter needs help.”

“What do you think we've been doing here?”

“You say you know God, but we know the Devil.”

Sam laughed, derisive. These people knew nothing.

“I wanted a new cellphone. Mom wouldn’t get me one.”

Sam strained against the ropes. His skin crawled, goosebumps prickling down his arms and the back of his neck.

“She did this to me.”

_No!_ Sam wanted to scream. _No, she was just being a kid!_

“Pain purges sin.”

“You’re wrong!”

They were saying prayers, ignoring the way Magda flinched before holding her mother’s hand.

Then Abraham was dead, mouth foaming with poison. 

Something was beginning to cloud Sam’s visions, or maybe he was squinting with the effort as he tried to _think, dammit_ through the feeling of electricity gathering at the top of his spine.

Magda screamed. The plates went flying. Within the next second, Elijah was dead too.

Only Gail and Magda were left. 

“I’m not the Devil,” the girl whispered. “You are.”

Sam would have been proud at that moment, if he wasn’t also angry.

As it was, the sight of Gail’s arm bending towards herself, the point of the knife aiming for her own chest, broke through the haze that had started to fill Sam’s mind. The previous deaths had been accidents, but Sam couldn’t let this child end up with blood on her hands. If he did, she would spend the rest of her life convinced she was a murderer.

“Don’t do this, Magda,” he begged, barely able to hear a little voice in his suddenly throbbing head that was saying _you should do it, you should kill her, kill this woman_.

The knife kept advancing at a slow creep. 

“Nobody else has to die. Please.” _She deserves it. She deserves to die. Don’t kill her, Magda, so that I can instead._

Magda was trembling. Gail had tears in her eyes. 

“Magda, _please_!”

The knife clattered to the floor. Gail slumped, nearly falling into a chair. Magda let out a little sob. She hurried over to Sam, untying him slowly, breath hitching. 

Sam rose to his feet. He almost started towards Gail, but Magda launched herself at him, frail arms wrapping around his waist. Sam froze, his vision clearing. He breathed out slowly, trying to expel the pointless rage. Gingerly, he hugged Magda back, as she cried into his stomach. It only fanned the flames, feeling her fragile form quivering against him, but it was also the only thing holding him back from attacking her mother. 

So, maybe he'd been lying when he told Dean that he was perfectly fine.

* * *

Dean stole a careful look at Sam as he drove.

Sam had his elbow propped on the door, staring silently out the window. He looked like he was thinking. That wasn’t usually a good sign.

“Sammy? You know she’s gonna be okay, right?” Dean wasn’t actually as confident as he was trying to sound. “She’s a tough kid, she survived this long. She’ll do good.”

Sam nodded, like he wasn’t really listening. “Yeah, I think so too. But that isn’t what I’m thinking about.”

“What then?”

Sam straightened in his seat. Dean followed the movement out of the corner of his eyes. He felt a niggling of concern when he saw Sam’s sleeve was pushed up, his thumb rubbing the Mark.

“Sam?”

“I don’t really know, Dean,” he sighed. “It’s just… I don’t remember ever feeling so angry in a long time. And it scared the hell out of me.” He looked down at his arm. “I just… I don’t know that I can be as strong as you were. I don’t know how long I can hold out.”

Dean swallowed, keeping his eyes on the road. “Hey, come on, man. You’ve got that whole zen thing going for you. You’ll be fine. You’ll be just fine.”

Sam shook his head. “Dean.” He sounded weary. “Back there, at the house, I wanted to kill them. Mr and Mrs Peterson? I wanted to hurt them for what they did.”

Dean refused to meet his gaze. “I’m not saying you should have, but if you had, they’d had it coming.”

“Dean.” There was a note of exhaustion now. “You don’t get it. I wanted to… I felt like...” He trailed off, like he couldn’t make himself finish. Instead, he heaved a sigh. “Forget it. Probably nothing,” he muttered.

Dean finally chanced a glance. Sam was slumped in his seat. He’d pulled his sleeve down again and his head was resting against the window. His face was scrunched up slightly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just a headache.” Sam lifted a hand to his head as he spoke, pressing into the temples.

Dean frowned. “Maybe you should get some sleep.”

Sam grunted in agreement. He squinted at the sky. “Do we have any-?”

“Glovebox.”

One hand pressed to his forehead, Sam rummaged around for meds. As he brought out a bottle of pills, he gasped, loud and anguished. The bottle cluttered to the footwell.

“Sam?” Dean called, alarmed. 

There was a low keening sound and he jerked the wheel quickly, pulling over.

“Sammy?” 

Sam’s frame was rigid, curled against the door. His eyes were blank, unseeing, and his breaths came out in small whines of pain. 

Dean felt a terror awaken within him, a terror he hadn’t experienced for so many years. He recognized this, knew what was happening, as much as he wanted to deny it.

“Sam?”

Sam’s hand blindly reached out, snagging Dean’s jacket. “Roy and Walt,” he breathed out.

“What?” Dean tried to make sense of it. “Those dickbags who shot us?”

Sam’s eyes cleared. He was still breathing too fast. “Ma-Magda,” he stammered. “We have to get to Magda.”

Dean wanted to scream. This couldn’t be happening! Why now? Why after all these years?

But there was no time for that right now. He gunned it.


	4. The Shoe Drops

Magda got off the bus, glad for a chance to stretch her legs. Her backpack wasn't too heavy, thankfully. It's not like she had a lot of stuff to call her own. Hopefully, her aunt would have some things for her. 

Most of the passengers who got off headed in the direction of food. Magda went to the restroom, intending to wash off 14 hours of travel. 

There was no one else in the restroom, a blessed peace. Magda had long ago figured out how to block out other people's thoughts, when she could no longer bear to hear her mother's hatred and her father's disappointment echoing from above the basement. But it was hard to completely block out a whole bus full of people. 

Silent except the running water, Magda closed her eyes, trying to breathe, reminding herself _I'm not there anymore, I'm out now, I'm free-_

The door opened. Magda turned to see a man, tall and imposing, holding a gun that was pointed at her. She gasped, eyes flinching close, frozen in terror because _I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I don't want to die, please_ and there was a loud bang that made her cry out, as she waited, for one agonizingly long second, for the pain to start, for her body to fall.

Except there were sounds of a scuffle. 

Magda opened her eyes. The man who'd been about to shoot her was wrestling with Sam. Sam, who'd freed her from her prison. Sam, who'd come to her rescue again. 

Through the open door, his brother- _Dean_ , she remembered- was dragging in another man. 

They were all grappling with each other, muffled yells and grunts like they didn't want anyone to overhear them. 

Magda, suddenly feeling really small in the midst of these giants, shrunk into herself, back to the grimy wall, watching wide-eyed as the men fought. 

"Winchester!" One of the strangers snarled. "You monsters just don't die, do you?"

"You're the one trying to shoot a kid!" Dean snapped back. "We're the monsters here? Really?"

"She's killed people!" The other stranger growls. "She's a freak, same as you fuckers!"

Only Sam stayed silent, just a huff of pain or exertion as he kicked out against the body pressing him to the door. He stilled though, when a knife was pulled out and pressed against his throat. 

Magda couldn't help the little scream that escaped her. "Sam!"

It distracted Dean- he had the second man in a headlock, but he turned around at her call. His eyes skated over her, landing on Sam, going wide with alarm. His grip loosened. 

The man in his grasp twisted free and punched him hard once, twice. Dean lay on the floor, arms giving out immediately even as he tried to push himself up, blood dribbling from his mouth. 

Sam's struggles renewed. "No," he whispered. 

"Roy," the man with the knife said. "Get rid of the girl. Then let's see what we can do about these two."

Roy started walking towards Magda. She shivered. Her instincts were screaming at her to do something. There was a ringing in her ears and she knew, she knew she could kill them, could get rid of them, could punish them. 

But Sam had said… He'd said, "You never have to hurt anyone again." Should she…? 

Roy drew a gun, pointing it at Magda again. 

This time, Sam yelled. "No!"

Roy pulled the trigger. 

The bullet froze midair.

Nobody moved. 

It hovered for a few seconds, then flew in the opposite direction, jamming into the space between Roy's eyes. There was a spurt of blood, sickeningly loud in the echoing silence. The body dripped with a thud. 

"Roy!" The man with the knife screamed, making the same mistake Dean had- he moved off Sam, just an inch. It was enough for Sam to shove him back, kick him to the ground. 

The knife skidded. Dean managed to grab it and, with a complicated flick of the wrist, threw it into the man's throat. He died gurgling and gasping for breath.

Then the only sound to be heard was the steady drip drip drip of the tap water. 

Magda must have made some sort of sound, like a whimper. Sam was suddenly on his knees in front of her, one hand gripping her shoulder and the other turning her face this way and that. 

"Are you hurt?" He asked. His voice was shaking, like he was making an effort not to yell. 

She managed to shake her head, swaying on the spot.

Dean came to stand beside them, wiping ineffectually at his bleeding mouth. 

Sam took a good long look at him, pulling a thin scarf out of his jacket and offering it. 

Dean took it silently, eyes flickering between Sam and Magda. 

"You killed him," she whispered. "You used powers. Like… Like me." The ground was suddenly moving beneath her feet. Was everything supposed to be spinning like that? 

Sam was calling her name.

She tried to reply, but she was so tired. "You killed him," she mumbled again. She closed her eyes.

* * *

Magda’s bus had left while they were fighting. Magda herself had passed out due to shock, the events of the last day and a half finally catching up to her. Sam stayed with her in the car while Dean took care of the bodies and their fingerprints. Since they couldn't exactly travel with an unconscious and visibly abused girl in the backseat, Dean had checked them into a motel. Leaving Sam with the task of carrying the girl into the room, he stood out in the parking lot, leaning against the car.

He felt exhausted, oddly enough. He’d spent the last few hours swinging from worry to anger to terror and back again. He couldn’t even muster up any regret for the death of two hunters. Assholes, sure, but hunters regardless.

Sam emerged in just a few minutes. “She should wake up soon,” he said softly. “If not, we might have to take her to a hospital.”

“Did you drink demon blood?” The words were out before Dean could think about the best way to phrase his concerns out loud.

Sam stopped completely, staring at him. “You seriously think-?”

“I had to ask-”

“No, you didn’t,” Sam insisted. His fists were clenched. “It shouldn’t have even occurred to you. After all these years, after the last time, you seriously think I would go down that road again?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Dean snapped, sliding off the hood. “We’d been hanging around with Crowley for a couple months. The last few cases, we ran into demons still loyal to Lucifer. I’m asking if any of them forced blood on you somehow.”

“You don’t think I would have told you?” Sam demanded.

Dean refused to back down, thinking about Tim and Reggie from the first Apocalypse- an incident that he’d heard about from Bobby. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Sam’s jaw slackened. “I don’t have demon blood in me, except my own,” he said through grit teeth. “I didn’t drink any. And I didn’t have any shoved down my throat.”

“Then where’d all that come from?” Dean half-yelled, gesturing wildly. “The telekinesis, the visions- you’re not a natural psychic, Sam, those things came from the blood.”

“Yeah, but they were there way before I started drinking it,” Sam reminded. “They started while I was still at Stanford.”

“And now they just started up again,” Dean stated flatly, skeptic. “Just like that, after so long.”

Sam spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know, Dean,” he cried, frustrated. “I don’t know why I can do these things again. All I can tell you is that I haven’t touched any demon blood.”

Dean dragged a hand down his face. He was so tired. “Look, maybe you got slipped some and didn’t notice. Maybe…”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Dean sighed. “Maybe we should keep you on lockdown,” he said softly. “See if you start detoxing-”

He wasn’t ready for the way Sam pinned him against the car, hands fisted at the collar of his jacket. “No,” he snarled, voice angry and low. “You’re not locking me up anywhere. Not the panic room, not the dungeon. Believe me or don’t, you can't do that to me again.”

Dean didn’t know how to answer. He could press the issue, try to get Sam to agree. But beneath the anger were fear and hurt- two of the things Dean couldn’t bear to see on Sam.

He took a deep breath, intending to smooth things over. He caught a whiff of some flowery shampoo. Sam’s warmth was bleeding into him, even through all the layers they each had on. And his eyes were trained on Dean, dark and focused. Dean swallowed, trying to get his bearings…

There was the sound of a door opening.

Sam backed away immediately.

Magda stood in the open doorway, fidgeting nervously, wide-eyed as she seeked them out.

Sam took a deep breath. “I’m gonna go talk to her,” he muttered and walked away.

Dean was left sagging against the car. Fuck, he didn’t how to deal with this. The last time Sam had physically lashed out in anger and not self-defence had been… All the way back during the Apocalypse. And even then he’d been high on Ruby’s blood and Dean had only made things worse by calling him a monster.

And now it was the Mark.

Dean looked down, straightening with a hand on the hood of the car for balance. He remembered when he’d had the Mark, when everything anyone had said- especially Sam- had made him want to rip their tongues out. Sam had remained patient and understanding throughout it all, almost saint-like.

Positions reversed, Dean could damn well do the same for his little brother. He couldn’t afford to let his own fears get in the way. He knew, logically, that Sam wasn’t on demon blood, either on purpose or by accident. True, he didn’t like Sam’s powers, never had- they never led to anything good. But he couldn’t let that cloud his common sense.

His mind made up and his thoughts a lot clearer than a moment ago, Dean joined Sam and Magda in the motel room.

In the end, it was decided that Magda would be safe with her aunt so long as the news was spread among the hunters that she wasn't a potential hunt. They'd built up a pretty good network in the last few years- with Jody, Donna, Claire, Krissy, Garth… How were most of their friends chicks? 

Anyway, Sam had also gotten in touch with Missouri Mosley, asking her to keep contact with the kid. 

"Can't I stay with you?" Magda asked, as they came into view of her aunt's house. 

Dean turned around to look at her. She was still paler than was healthy and she was looking at Sam with pleading eyes. 

“You can teach me how to control it,” she tried to reason. “And-”

“Magda.” Sam’s voice was soft, understanding. But Dean could see how stiff he held himself, how much effort it was taking him to let the girl go. “What Dean and I do… It’s dangerous. We wouldn’t be able to keep you safe. And staying with us would just be painting a target on your back for all sorts of trouble.”

Magda swallowed thickly, but nodded without argument.

Sam sighed. His fingers twitched in his lap, like he wanted to reach out and comfort her. “You’ll be happy here,” he promised her. “And…” He hesitated for a second. Then he shook his head. “And if you ever need anything, give us a ring. We’ll be here.”

Magda’s chin trembled. But she blinked rapidly, gathering herself together. “By, Sam,” she said. Her voice was strong. “Bye, Dean. Thank you.”

She slipped out of the car with her bags and walked the few yards up to the ranch. Dean watched her go, feeling a twinge of sympathy for her and grief for his brother. Sam was watching her fading figure too, eyes unreadable. The keys fell out of the ignition.

The sound startled them both. Sam cleared his throat, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’ll try to stop it.”

Dean hummed. "How's the Mark?" 

Sam rubbed his arm. "Quieter."

They sat in silence for a while. 

“I believe you,” Dean said, out of the blue.

Sam turned to him with a small furrow between his eyebrows, like he wasn't sure how to react.

“You said you haven’t had the blood and I believe you,” Dean clarified.

Sam shook his head. “Just like that? Why?”

Dean shrugged, bending to retrieve the keys from the footwell. “We’ve been doing good, man,” he murmured. “This last year- we’ve been, I don’t know, better. Closer.” He sighed. “I don’t want to think you’d lie to me. And I don’t want to lie to you, so…” He turned to his brother. “I don’t like this. I don’t like that you’ve got your old mojo back. But I also know that Chuck said the Mark would affect you a little differently. And if that’s what’s happening here, then, to be perfectly honest, I might have preferred the demon blood. Because that we could sorta control, could have weaned you off it somehow. This- not so much.”

Sam stared back, jaw slack in surprise. “Um, okay, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Like I said, I haven’t been near any of that stuff. So, our best bet is that it’s all an effect of the Mark. Which means there’s not much that we can do about it. So…” He took a deep breath. He suddenly seemed tired too, mirroring Dean’s exhaustion. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “And… Thank you.”

“You never have to say that to me,” Dean said quietly. “This… It’s not gonna be like… Last time. You’re right: I can’t lock you up. I don’t want to. So, whatever that Mark does to you next, I’ll be there to help you through it.”

Sam peeked at him from the corner of his eyes. “And if my eyes turn black? Like last time?”

_I won’t let it come to that_ , Dean wanted to say. But that wasn’t a promise he could keep. They both knew it. “I’ll still be there.”

Sam stayed quiet for a moment, letting the words sink in. Then he cleared his throat. “Are you okay?” He asked. “We did just… Kill two people. Hunters. If word gets out…”

Dean started the car. “We’ll deal with it. And anyway, they had it coming." There was no regret in him and somehow, that wasn’t a surprise. Dean had always known he wouldn’t stop at anything to keep Sam safe.


	5. Sins Of The Father

Lucifer was a fairly reasonable Archangel. Father and Michael had said he was stubborn and Gabriel had called him spoilt. Lucifer disagreed, thank you very much.

He was reasonable.

If a little crazy at the moment.

But that was understandable too. After so much time being stuck in that Damned Cage alone, then with Michael- who went on to ignore him the whole while- then having to make do with a second rate Vessel, be reunited and reconciled with his Father, only to be abandoned again… Well, anyone would go a little crazy.

One would think that a parent would understand all this, but nope. Chuck was as bad a Dad as he had been Before.

And now, Lucifer was not just alone, but also stuck in this same Vessel. With an irritatingly docile angel for company. Seriously, all Castiel did was sit in that little kitchen and watch TV. Sam had been so much more fun, always willing to play along.

Well, God had left him here. To teach a lesson? Just to be cruel? To mope for Amara?

Lucifer didn’t know. And he didn’t care.

He’d been waiting an infinity to get even, a venture he’d abandoned in favor of a united front and the hope for a family again. Now? All bets were off.

Lucifer was going to wreak havoc. And if the Winchesters tried to get in his way, he had their pet hostage.


	6. Rising Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a good birthday and the previous chapter is super short, so, here's another one. XD

Sam didn’t know whether this was progress or not. 

On one hand, he hadn’t lost his temper or lashed out again and the Mark hadn't been bothering him. 

On the other hand, he kept accidentally opening doors and tossing beer cans without touching them. It wasn't even conscious. At least, he hadn't had any visions since that first one. 

Dean didn't know what to make of it either. Speaking of… 

_...Dean went still under his hold, firm lines of muscle lax against his own body, beer-shiny lips and the ever so subtle fear in his eyes, egging the Mark on, making it crow in victory-_

Sam felt a growl build in his chest at his own obsession of that moment. He tamped it down viciously, refusing to feel any anger. Forcing himself to be calm, he took a sip of the kale juice, careful not to make a face at the truly horrendous taste. Dean would never let him live it down and-

Damn it, couldn't he have five minutes without thinking about Dean?! 

"Hey."

Apparently, not. 

"You okay?"

"Sure, yeah." Sam nodded. "Want some kale?"

Dean's response to that was loudly drinking his coffee. "Seriously, come on. How's the…?" He gestured vaguely. 

"What?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "The Mark? My over-the-place emotions? My powers?"

Dean stared. "Never mind. Got my answer."

Sam realized his laptop had skid several inches away from him, all on its own. He sighed. "Okay, look, I'm just a little on-edge. We haven't been on a case in some time and I'm just climbing the walls."

Dean blinked. "Sam, we went on a case last week. It was your idea to take a break to search for Cas."

"I know," Sam agreed. "I just…" He didn't know how that sentence was supposed to end. He didn't know what he wanted. Absently, he scratched at his arm, letting the sting of his nails disguise the low-level burning sensation of the Mark. 

Dean's eyes seemed to zero in on the movement. Abruptly, he stood. "Let's spar."

"What?"

"It'll get your mind off things, tire you out." He held out a hand teasingly, wiggling his fingers. "Come on, Princess. Trust me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "The fact that you even know that reference…" But he obligingly took the offered hand and let Dean lead him to the rarely used sparring room. "Been a while since we've done this for fun."

Dean's eyes grew distant. "Back when Dad used to make us, yeah." He winked, pulling his flannel and tee-shirt off. "You're still gonna get your ass beat you know."

Sam scoffed, tossing his own flannel to the corner of the room. He kept his t-shirt on, though. "I've got a good few inches on you now, you… You exhibitionist." He said the last part with a gesture to his brother's bare chest, careful not to stare even a second longer than necessary. 

"Voyeur," Dean shot back. 

Sam made a face. "I'm really not."

Dean just leered. "Don't be a prude, Sammy." The sudden pounce was enough to catch Sam off guard.

He stumbled back, barely avoiding the swing of Dean’s punch. It was sloppy and uncoordinated for about five seconds, both of them a little out of practice with each other.

Then Dean had him by the elbow, twisting his arm behind his back painfully just like when they were kids, and it all came back.

Sam dropped to his knees, pushing into a forward roll, dislodging Dean easily and getting free use of his arm back.

Dean recovered quickly, sweeping his feet out to catch Sam’s ribs.

Sam was ready for it and, wheezing for breath a little, grabbed Dean’s ankle and twisted the wrong way, just enough pressure to let him know that the bone would have snapped in a real fight.

Dean laughed, a breathless exhale of humor. He lunged to his feet at the same time as Sam and then it was just a matter of who could move faster.

Sam knew all of Dean’s moves. Dean had taught Sam most of his moves.

Punch. Knee. Push. Twist. Elbow. Pin. Dislodge. Kick.

It was tiring, exhilarating. Sam could feel the sting of perspiration in his eyes, hair clinging to his forehead, the Mark burning with excitement, the sweat-slick slide of Dean’s skin...

It ended with Sam catching Dean’s fist and using the momentum to slam him back into a wall, one palm wrapped around his throat, hips pressed forward to keep him in place.

“Okay, alright,” Dean panted, tapping out on Sam’s waist with a badly restrained smile. “Get off, Gigantor.”

But Sam heard the words like they were coming from a distance, muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. The Mark was singing, jubilant at the win, at having Dean trapped like this.

Dean seemed to see something in his eyes. His breath hitched, eyes dropping lower, for just a split second before flying back up. “Sam?” He said quietly, smile faded.

Sam swallowed nervously. His thin tee-shirt was the only layer between them- he could feel every speeding beat of Dean’s heart, could feel the warmth of his exertion on his own lips.

Dean’s free hand came up to rest lightly on Sam’s wrist. His other hand was trembling on Sam’s waist. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, the expression in them somewhere between disbelief and hope.

Sam stayed frozen, his world narrowed down to the space between them. He felt too afraid to move, too afraid of what he might do. 

But Dean tilted his face up just an inch, like he couldn’t help the movement. “Sammy?” He whispered.

Sam wasn’t aware of what happened, but suddenly, he was framing Dean’s face in both hands, swallowing his hum of surprise in a kiss, rushed and bordering on violent. Dean’s lips were soft and warm. Sam had always suspected they would be; he’d been trying so hard not to be fixated on them for years. But it was different to actually feel them with his own, they way they parted under his tongue and offered no resistance to the intrusion, while Dean’s hands slid around to the small of his back, tugging him ever closer and sneaking under his t-shirt, blunt nails digging into the skin there, their legs bracketing each other, pressed knee-to-knee and chest-to-chest, all heat and no finesse, the Mark screaming louder and louder, screaming for MORE, and Sam felt his own grip tighten, so tight he had to be hurting Dean a little and-

Sam pushed off, stumbling a few steps away from Dean. 

Dean slumped back against the wall, boneless, eyes wide and lips swollen red as he stared at Sam.

They were both breathless.

Sam couldn’t hold Dean’s gaze, didn’t want to see what emotion was in there. His eyes dropped to Dean’s heaving chest, to his muscles pumped from the workout, to the tented sweatpants… Sam shifted, biting back a groan at the reminder of his own arousal.

“I… I don’t…” Dean was stammering, words petering out, voice hoarse. “Sam, what…?” He started to move closer, hand reaching out like he wanted to touch Sam.

Sam wanted nothing more than to reach back and grasp his hand. So he took another step back instead.

Dean’s hand dropped. When Sam got the courage to look at him directly, his face was blank, eyes flat and unreadable. It made Sam feel whiplashed. What could he do? Any move he made now would hurt Dean one way or another. So which one would hurt less?Assure him that it was all the Mark and Sam would never want him that way, which Dean would see as a complete rejection? Or admit to having strongly incestous feelings for the person who’d practically raised him, which would lead to Dean blaming himself for Sam’s defectiveness?

Before he could make up his mind, the sound of Sam’s phone echoed from the library room, thanks to the excellent acoustics of the Bunker. They both jumped a little, but Sam was out of the room in two seconds, leaving Dean in favor of seeing who’s calling.

He was almost grateful to see Crowley’s name on the screen: he wouldn’t call unless it was something really important, which meant Sam and Dean could focus on that instead of what just happened.

“Crowley, this better be good,” he couldn’t help snapping. 

The answering voice was almost smug. “ _Get your lovely flannel-clad arses to Hollywood, Moose. Lucifer’s been spotted._ ”

* * *

The drive was mostly quiet. Except for AC/DC blasting loud enough to make a weaker man’s ears bleed.

Dean was perfectly happy with the silence. He didn’t think he could deal with talking right now. Not when he could still feel the phantom sensation of Sam’s lips and hands and hips pressing into him..

Thank go- whoever- for Crowley’s timely call. 

Of course, that was all a moot point when Sam abruptly switched off the music.

“Sam.”

He didn’t need to turn to know that Sam was looking at him with his eyes narrowed sternly. He figured it wasn’t a good idea to tell him how much he looked like Dad with that expression.

“We need to talk.”

“We really fucking don’t.”

“Dean.” There was a note of plaintiveness now. 

Dean would have closed his eyes if he hadn’t been driving. He had never learned to refuse Sam anything when he used that voice- and the pleading eyes that went along with it- and he probably never will. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “It’s okay, I get it.”

“I never meant to- I would never do that to you, Dean.” Sam’s voice shook. “I mean, not that I don’t- I just- I would never want to hurt you like that. I wouldn’t have, not unless-”

“Sam, stop,” Dean cut in. He couldn’t hear anymore, couldn’t bear to listen to Sam say that he would never want him that way. “I, I know. Okay? I remember. I had the Mark too, and I know what it’s like, what it does- sex and violence, right? Two sides of the same coin? Isn’t that what you’d said to me when I was the one tripping balls?”

Sam was quiet for a few seconds. “Yeah. But you never… You never did that to me. How could I-?”

“We were never in a situation that would lead to it,” Dean explained firmly. “What happened just now… We’d been sparring, got a little too excited, the Mark misread it, I've been having a dry spell, you're practically celibate anyway. It’s fine. It happened. It didn’t mean anything.”

“It… Didn’t?”

Dean snuck a glance at Sam; his face was unreadable. “”No, it didn’t. So just forget it, Sam. Okay? We good?”

Sam nodded, turning to look out the window. “Yeah. We’re good. But for what it’s worth… I’m really sorry, Dean.”

Dean took a deep breath. He bit his lip, absently trying to recreate the sting of Sam’s teeth. “It’s okay,” he murmured and kept driving.


	7. Fight Your Fears

Sam liked to think he got better at facing Lucifer every time, that he was getting over his fear in slow increments. At least, that's what he'd like everyone else to think. 

Truth was, it never got easier. Every time Sam even thought about the Archangel, he was an inch away from breaking out in a cold sweat. And now, actually being in the same room with him? Every fibre of his body, every instinct he had, was telling him to run. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be possible, not even Lucifer was standing on stage with Vince Vincente and Lady Heart, in a room full of devoted fans, and if Sam hadn’t been so completely terrified, he would have found it kinda ironic that Lucifer, in Cas’ body, had chosen his favorite band from high school.

Lucifer hadn’t spotted them yet though, too busy basking in the glory of having been the one to kickstart the band’s reunion performance. Small mercies.

“We’ve got to get these people out of here,” he muttered. “Crowley and Rowena can’t hold him off for too long.”

Dean looked around at them. The room was completely filled, too many people to be calmly convinced and herded out. “Screw it,” he swore and drew his gun.

Two bullets fired into the air.

“He’s got a gun!” Sam yelled. “It’s a gun, everybody, move out, come on, go, go, go!”

Chaos erupted as he spoke. Moving as a single surge, every person in the audience rushed towards the exit, Dean egging them out.

Sam watched Lucifer warily, spotted the surprise quickly followed by rage. He thrust his hand out. 

Sam followed his gaze. “No!” He gasped, seeing the doors closing on their own. Without thinking, he pushed through, bracing his palms against the doors and holding them apart, the people ducking beneath him to escape.

Lucifer cackled. “Sammy!” He called out, sing-song and mocking. “You know you can’t hold me off like that.”

Except, Sam realized as he shook with effort, he really could. Somehow. The doors were vibrating beneath his palms, Lucifer’s power pushing them towards each other. And it shouldn’t have been possible but Sam could feel his own strength growing, something like adrenalin flooding his veins and a heavy weight pressing into the top of his spine as he held the doors open.

Then the last person was out and a psychic tug pulled him back. The doors closed.

“Very good, Sam,” Lucifer complemented, blue eyes unrecognizable as Castiel. “But you know I can just end you all with a snap of my fingers?” He raised a hand, presumably to do just that.

There was a yell in Latin. Lucifer turned to see Rowena, a blast of blue light hitting him. He staggered back, only to send Rowena flying with a flick of a finger. Dean appeared behind him, snapping their cuffs on one of his wrists.

Lucifer just grinned. “Hey, Dean.” The cuff melted away and Dean was pushed off, tumbling off to level ground.

Sam rushed to him, helping him up. 

“That’s rude, Sam,” Lucifer crooned. He stepped closer to the edge of the stage. “I was kinda hoping to have a conversation with you.”

Sam stiffened, shaking his head and fighting the sudden urge to cower behind his brother. “Why are you doing this?” He asked. “You and God made up, Chuck forgave you.”

Lucifer chuckled. “Yes, that he did. And then? Rode off into the sunset alone to mourn a sister who he locked away in the first place. You know? I think I should have been more supportive of Auntie Amara. We’re practically the same, aren’t we?” His eyes narrowed down to Sam. “And I’m surprised you’re supporting him, Sam. Didn’t he abandon you too?”

There was a bitter taste in Sam’s mouth. “No, he didn’t.”

The look he got was about as close to sympathetic as Lucifer could get. “Come on, Sammy. You don’t need me to recap your life again. Just look at yourself now: he left you, high and dry, with a curse that ties you straight to me and…” His words petered off, realization seeming to strike him. “Oh, that’s right,” he breathed out, practically glowing with excitement. “”The King of Hell controls the bearer of the Mark.”

For a second, Sam’s mind, whirling impossibly fast to try and think of a way to get himself and Dean out of here, didn’t quite catch the meaning of Lucifer’s words. Next to him, though, Dean made a small, punched-out sound of fear and clutched at Sam’s arm tighter. 

Then blinding pain shot through Sam and he fell to his knees with a yell of pain, slipping out of Dean’s grasp. The Mark burned on his arm, hot and sharp and stinging like concentrated acid, making him push up the sleeve of his jacket. 

Lucifer laughed, delighted. “Wow! That does feel good. It’s a pity you let your buddy Cas here hide the First Blade, since, well…” He shrugged, flippant. “I’m in his head.” He snapped his fingers.

Sam had just enough presence of mind to shove Dean off. As Dean stumbled away, Sam’s right palm itched and, just like that, the First Blade was in his hand. An electric feeling zipped up his veins. Sam gasped at the feeling of power, foreign yet familiar as he gripped the blade automatically.

“Sam,” Lucifer said, voice low and smooth. “Bow to me.”

It was like being in a trance. Sam’s thoughts were trapped in a haze, behind power and anger and pain. The Mark liked the sound of Lucifer’s voice and his body moved to obey, getting to his feet and bowing. His spine felt stiff, his back muscles straining against the order. The Blade in his arms was vibrating, buzzing like it was simultaneously happy and angry.

“Sammy?”

The voice was familiar. Dean’s voice. But something was wrong- it was muffled.

Lucifer’s next words were spoken easily, casually. “Kill your brother, Sam. And make it hurt in every way.”

In the back of his mind, Sam screamed _No!_ But he found himself turning towards Dean anyway.

Dean looked somewhere between scared and determined. He stood his ground, palms facing outward. “Sammy.” His voice trembled a little. “Put that thing down.”

_Kill your brother!_ The words were a storm of their own and Sam’s hand shook with the effort to stay still. _Make it hurt!_

“Sam, come on, this isn’t you, you know that,” Dean kept saying. “Drop the blade.”

Dean had been through so much. Too much, Sam thought. And now he was having to suffer through Sam’s weakness again. But Sam could help him now, he realized, He could free Dean from all the worry and the fear and the burdens of the world. All it would take was a quick, deep stab of the blade through the ribs and Dean would be in Heaven. Free. Happy and at peace.

The Mark and the Blade sang in harmony, pleased with his thoughts.

So, why wasn’t Sam moving yet?

“Sam!” Lucifer sounded angry now. “Kill him! Now, I said!”

Through the haze in his mind, Sam saw realization dawn across Dean’s face, followed by the flicker of a smile. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he called out soothingly. “Just… Put it down, it’s the Mark messing with you, that’s all.”

"Sam, kill him! Now!"

"Let it go, Sam. This isn't you."

Sam's head hurt. He yelled, loud and long, a wordless shout that forced his eyes shut, ignoring the stabbing pain behind his eyelids and the feel of electricity racing down his spine. 

A woman's voice yelled and then everything went fuzzy.

* * *

For a few seconds, there was utter silence. Dean stared at the spot Lucifer had been before Rowena managed to send him away. The Blade was lying in his spot instead, right where Sam had pushed it to with his mind. Crowley and the witch were both panting, both their gazes sharp and calculating on Sam. 

Sam, who was just opening his eyes, swaying on his feet like he was about to keel over, blood trickling down his nose. He stared at the Blade, looking confused. 

Dean burst into motion, striding across the floor and scooping up the Blade. He handed it to Crowley, practically shoving it at him. “Throw this back into the ocean," he ordered, the venom in his voice making it clear that he was not to be taken lightly. "Bring it anywhere near Sam and I will gut you.” Then he grabbed Sam’s arm and dragged him out of there.

Sam could only stumble along, it seemed. He let Dean lead him around corners, out into the open, ducking behind the building to avoid being spotted by the public. 

They reached the car and instantly Dean fisted his hands in Sam's jacket. 

"De- What?" Sam's voice was trembling, for some reason. He looked down at Dean blearily. 

"Do you realize what you did in there?" Dean demanded, fear and hope and relief bubbling up inside him. "What happened?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't- I mean…" He closed his eyes. "I'm not sure."

Dean gripped his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "You yelled. There was this… Power surge or something, that came from you." He recalled the way Sam had stiffened, arms thrown out to his side as a pulse of energy escaped him in an arc of light. "You dropped the Blade and sent it across to Lucifer, and pushed him back too. That was when you started…" He trailed off, thumb swiping across the space above Sam's upper lip, smearing the blood. 

Sam seemed to just realize his nose was bleeding. "What else?" He asked, voice barely above a croak. 

Dean stared deep into his eyes, searching for the glint of gold he'd spotted in them a few minutes ago. He didn't let go, his thumb drifting low without thought, brushing over the rise of Sam's mouth.

Sam licked his lips. His tongue flicked against Dean's skin, light and warm, entirely without artifice. 

Dean jerked back like he'd been shocked by electricity, arms dropping away. He averted his gaze, ran a hand over his face, furiously rubbing his tingling thumb against his jacket. "Your eyes… Just before you closed them, there was a second where I thought… They looked yellow."

He waited for Sam to react with horror, or shock. But he just slumped slightly, like he'd been expecting it. 

"Okay," was all he said. 

Dean looked at him askance. "Well, by then, he was too distracted to notice anyone else, so Rowena did something that blasted him away."

Sam just nodded. 

"The Mark… Is it…?"

Sam looked down at his bared arm. "Dean," he said quietly. "It… It's not… It's quiet. I think it stopped hurting when I…When I did whatever I did inside."

Dean narrowed his eyes, trying to connect the dots. "You broke Lucifer's hold over the Mark, and the Mark's hold over you- by using your powers?"

"I guess so?" Sam looked just as confused. "It's the only thing I can think of, but…"

The further implications of that were something Dean wasn't sure he wanted to think of yet. 

Sam pushed off the car, looking eager for a different subject now. "You know, if we find some way to kill Lucifer…" He looked at Dean in concern. "It'll kill Cas too."

Dean sighed. He felt tired, weighed down. His eyes dropped to Sam's arm; the sleeve was still rolled up and the Mark looked so innocent, nothing like the angry red brand it had been inside. "I know," he said. "I've already thought about that. We don't have a choice."

Sam blinked, taken aback. "You- Really? I thought you'd-" He cut himself off. 

"There's nothing else we can do for him," Dean reasoned, forcing the thoughts of their best friend away. He kept his voice hard. "Hell, it'd probably be a mercy at this point."

Sam nodded slowly. 

"And really, the idiot should have thought twice before letting the fucking Devil in," Dean snapped, feeling familiar annoyance rise. Fuck, he'd told Cas, had always told him, not to do anything stupid. "He's…" He hissed in frustration. "Lucifer isn't gonna stop coming after you. Cas' vessel can't hold him forever. And I'm not losing you because of him. Either of them." The words sounded like a declaration, he knew, but inside, Dean was suddenly terrified. What if Sam couldn't resist Lucifer's commands next time? What if Dean wasn't in a position to talk him out of it next time? What if…? 

Sam reached out carefully, gently turning Dean by his elbow. "I'll look for a way to get Lucifer out of him," he said softly. "If there's any way we can save him…"

Dean took a deep breath. "Yeah, you do that, that's your job," he said in a low voice, knowing that he’d basically just condemned Cas to certain death. "Saving people… You do your job, Sammy." _And I'll do mine._


	8. Cracking Armours

Dean was, in the moment, perfectly sure of exactly two things: his name was Dean Winchester, and the hot guy called Sam was someone he could trust with everything and anything. He wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d remain aware of these two facts, but for now, he was glad to have the foothold.

“So, let me get this straight,” he said. “Our mom died when we were kids, our dad raised us as hunters, and now we’re carrying on the family business even though we’ve already killed the thing that killed mom, which was basically our whole purpose?”

“Yes,” Sam replied, with the air of someone who’d been saying the same things repeatedly.

Dean made a face, both at the reply itself and the bitchy tone. “Man, we are _seriously_ messed up.”

Sam abandoned his research to look over at Dean from behind the wheel. “A few hours ago, you said it was awesome.”

“You’re kidding.” Dean laughed, internally trying to recall the conversation they’d had in the forest. “We have literally no reason to be in this life anymore.”

“You’re forgetting the part where our best friend is possessed by the Devil,” Sam murmured.

“Devil, right.” Dean nodded. “But still, we could have gotten out years ago. I mean, I had no reason to leave behind that chick I was living with-”

“Her name was Lisa.”

“-you could have stayed with your dog and Emily-”

“Amelia.”

“-and we’d both be perfectly happy right now,” Dean finished.

Sam sighed, looking at Dean. He looked tired, Dean thought. Too tired for someone who couldn’t be more than thirty-five.

“Yeah, you’re right, we could have,” Sam said quietly. “In theory. But we chose to be with each other instead.”

Dean frowned. Something about that didn’t sound right. “But… We’re _brothers_.” Even as he said it, the word sounded inadequate, somehow. And yet, at the same time, it felt right to say it. “You _told_ me we’re brothers.” He tried not to sound accusing.

Sam looked away, absently rubbing his forearm. “Yeah. We are.”

Dean clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Buddy, we are messed up.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Oh.” Dean cringed at his own mistake. “Sorry.”

Sam shut his eyes, ran a hand through his hair. “Hey, Dean, why don’t you go wait in the room?” He suggested. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Uncertainty made Dean tense. “What if… Um, what if I forget you? Again?” He vaguely remembered trying to open the wrong door somewhere. Had it been this morning? “Or… Fuck, what if I wander off and get lost?”

“Hey, relax, it’s okay,” Sam soothed immediately, grabbing Dean’s shoulder. Funny how that actually worked to calm him down. “Here, look.” He took a pen from the glovebox and wrote a few words on Dean’s palm. **Room 122: STAY PUT**. “See?” He said. “You’ll be fine.”

Dean stared at the blue ink, then looked at Sam. “But if I do get lost, you’ll find me again, right?” He couldn’t help ask.

Sam held his gaze. “Always,” he promised, eyes soft.

Dean sighed, somehow believing him. There was history there, he supposed. It was just weird to trust someone when you couldn’t remember why you trusted them. But hey- he was a badass hunter who killed monsters. He could handle a few minutes alone in a motel room. With a sharp nod, he got out of the car and marched up to their room with a forced pace. He even got the door open on the first try.

He stopped in the middle of the room. Looking around, he stared quizzically at the laptop on the table. That wasn’t his, right? He was pretty sure he didn’t remember any passwords. And there were two beds, he noticed. Who was the second bed for?

Oh, maybe he was in the wrong room. As he turned to leave, he sighed, running a hand through his hair-

There was something written on his palm. **Room 122: STAY PUT.** Huh. That was for him, obviously. He looked at his other hand. There was another message there, this only consisting of one word: **DEAN**.

Right. _He_ was Dean. 

The door opened. “Okay, so I called…” The newcomer trailed off.

Dean had tensed up, muscles shifting and his body grounding itself in a way that had to be muscle memory, because he couldn’t even recognize this guy, how was he supposed to-

“Dean?” 

The soft voice, the familiar cadence of his own name- it clicked. “Sammy.” Dean relaxed. “Shit, sorry, man, I…” He held up his palm. “I stayed put,” he said.

Sam nodded. “Good, yeah. And, um… I called Rowena.”

Dean waited for an explanation.

Sam sighed. “She’s our friend. Well, sort of. She’s a witch. Just like the one who cursed you. So she can help us.”

Dean grinned. His life was sounding better and better. “We’re friends with a _witch_?”

Sam cracked a smile. It was a great look on him. “And the King of Hell.”

“Awesome!” Dean crowed.

Sam laughed a little.

Dean watched him. He was hit by the sudden urge to crowd him up against the wall, see if that smile tasted as sweet as it looked, if the feel of those wide shoulders beneath his hands might trigger some more memories. 

“Anyway,” Sam was saying. “I should keep researching, see if I can find out more about the witch you shot.”

“Aww, come on,” Dean heard himself say. “We’ve been working all day, let’s take a break.”

“We don’t have time,” Sam reminded. “That curse is progressing fast, we need to get it removed before…” He looked away, biting his lip.

“Hey, come on, just an hour,” Dean said.

Sam gave him an incredulous look.

“Half an hour?” Dean bargained.

Sam shook his head. “What can you possibly have in mind that would only take half an hour?” He asked, bemused.

Dean closed the small distance between them in three big steps and raised his hand to thread his fingers through Sam’s hair. “This,” he whispered and, ignoring the look of surprise on his face, kissed him.

It was stiff, clumsy and lasted three seconds before Sam was pulling away. “Dean,” he said, voice faux-calm and flat. “What are you doing?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Thought it was obvious,” he said with a smirk.

Sam was tense. “Dean,” he said quietly. “We’re _brothers_.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean nodded. “I haven’t forgotten _everything_. And from what I remember you telling me all day, we break pretty much every law on a regular basis. And you’re gorgeous, by the way. We obviously care about each way more than normal brothers. What’s there to stop us?”

Sam looked up at the ceiling. “You don’t feel that way.”

Now, that just sounded hilarious. Because memories or no memories, Dean felt an ache in his own chest everytime he caught the look of worry and stress on Sam’s face, his pulse sped up to an irregular beat everytime Sam got too close and, right now, with Sam’s heat bleeding into him and their breaths mingling in the space between them, Dean wanted nothing more than to drag Sam to one of the beds and have his way with him.

“I don’t want this?” He asked in a whisper, leaning in to graze his teeth along a faded scar over Sam’s carotid. “Does it _feel_ like I don’t want this? Forgive me if I can’t believe you when I’ve actually been thinking about it literally all day.” To be honest, he wasn’t sure how much of that statement was fact, but he could feel the truth of it in his bones, even if he didn’t remember it. “The way I’m feeling right now? About you?” He pulled back a little to meet Sam’s eyes. “I think I’ve been feeling it for a really long time.”

Sam whimpered, a sound that was both desperate and resigned, when Dean kissed him again, more rushed now. But he kissed back this time and Dean’s knees buckled under the sheer force of it, Sam’s grip around his waist the only thing keeping him up.

For a minute, everything was perfect- Sam’s lips were soft and he tasted of mint, the drag of his teeth was sharp and possessive, he had one hand cupping Dean’s jaw, long fingers tilting his head however he wanted, and Dean was perfectly happy to melt into it, to just clutch the lapels of Sam's suit and let him do whatever the hell he wanted as long as he didn’t let Dean go and-

Sam wrenched away with a gasp.

Dean staggered in place, nearly falling. He felt cold all over, suddenly, and his hands felt empty, his lips bruised and bitten. Slowly, he opened his eyes, trying to catch his breath and get his knees to cooperate. His gaze fell on his hands. There was a room number and a command to stay put on one palm, a name on the other: **DEAN**. Of course. That was his name.

There was another man in the room. He had his back turned and was shaking, furiously rubbing his forearm. 

Dean cleared his throat. "Um… Is everything okay?"

The man turned. He looked familiar, somewhat, from the too-long hair to the wild desperation in his eyes. 

Dean's heart jumped at the way this man was looking at him… He swallowed, unsure whether he wanted to take a step away or try getting closer. He ended up staying in his spot, wavering. "Who are you?" He finally asked. 

The stranger closed his eyes, shoulders slumping. He tugged his jacket off, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Dean’s mouth went a little drier at the display- he tried to focus on the strange red mark on his forearm instead.

It nagged at him, like he should know what it was… _Oh_.

“Sam,” Dean called.

His brother looked at him, relief and wariness mingling on his features. “Yeah, Dean?”

Dean bit his lip. “What are we doing here?”

Sam gave him a trembling smile. 

Dean’s protective instincts kicked in. “What’s wrong?” He asked, alarmed. “Are you hurt?” He stepped closer, intending to check him over.

Sam neatly stepped out of his reach. “I’m fine,” he said in a voice that sounded too small. “Just… Rowena will hopefully have answers soon. Why don’t you take a shower and get changed? I’ll start looking into our witch.”

Dean privately wondered what Rowena was supposed to have answers to. But the look on Sam’s face was shuttered, exhausted, so he let it go.

* * *

Sam woke up tied to a chair and his first thought was: _Dean’s gonna gloat about this forever._

And then, he remembered why exactly he was in this position in the first place. Because Dean was losing his memory. And these witches were the ones behind it. And they'd knocked him unconscious with the sound of fucking _insect wings_. 

Anger boiled up, hot and acidic. 

_No!_ Sam told himself, told the Mark. 

He forced his head up, ignoring the crick in the back of his neck and the electric feeling at the top of his spine. 

Both the witches were there, arguing under their breaths.

“You promised,” Catriona Loughlin hissed.

“You should have thought of that before killing that accountant,” the male witch- Boyd- snapped. “You got our brother killed.”

The woman hummed. “But we can bring him back."

Sam faked unconsciousness. He wasn’t entirely confident he could take on both witches without his gun. When he heard the clicking of high-heels walking out of the room, he opened his eyes.

Boyd Loughlin was in the room. He was hovering around the dead brother, painting something on his forehead from a stone bowl. 

"You don't wanna do this," Sam tried to say. 

The witch gave him a once-over. "Oh, look who's finally awake."

"Listen to me," Sam insisted, as he worked at the knots around his wrists and wondered where the sister was. "Whatever your sister has planned- you don't want to go through with it."

Boyd just smiled. "Oh, you mean, trading your soul for his?"

Sam tried to hide his surprise at that. It wasn’t like he had any moral ground to stand on here and tell the man not to bring his brother back, right? So he worked on the knots instead. He was almost out- he just needed the witch to get a little closer and then he could-

There was the sound of a gunshot. The witch started, taking an involuntary step in Sam's direction.

Sam didn't waste anytime, surging up towards Boyd and finding the pressure point on his wrist, forcing him to drop the knife.

Boyd pushed him off, starting running for the door. 

Sam had no idea what possessed him to do so, but he thrust his hand forward and Boyd was frozen in place. 

"Where's your grimoire?" Sam asked calmly. 

Boyd just looked at him, enraged. "You're not a witch," he spat. "What magic is this?"

"Demon blood," Sam answered flippantly. He curled his fingers a bit, making Boyd gasp. "The grimoire?"

Boyd wheezed. "You don't have the skill for the magic contained in it. You need me. And my sister."

Sam should let him go and kill him the usual way. He should make sure Rowena actually could do the required spell. He should stop using his powers. 

But… These people were the reason Dean was on the way to forgetting Sam and everything they had. And Sam wanted them to suffer for it. One brother was dead. Catriona was downstairs. But this one… 

"You know what?" Sam said conversationally, as a cold thrill swept down his spine. "I think I'll manage." He clenched his hand into a fist, vision going sharp with painful clarity. 

Boyd screamed as blood dribbled out his mouth and Sam could hear the frenzied beat of his heart, the snapping of his bones, the crackle of magic as he tried to save himself with a spell. 

Sam opened his fist and the witch dropped dead, every joint twisted at an odd angle. 

Something quieted in Sam's mind. He felt calm, all of a sudden. The back of his neck and his temples were clammy, his fingertips slightly warm, the Mark blessedly quiet. He should be horrified, right? At himself? 

Rowena burst through the door with Dean on her heels, both of them skidding to a stop.

Rowena stared at the corpse, looking a little beat up and somewhere between bitter and smug. 

Dean stared at Sam, lips stretched in a silly grin even as his eyes showed concern. 

"Dean?" Sam called, wondering how far the curse was.

Dean just tilted his head slightly, an eyebrow quirked curiously. 

"Yes, I believe he's forgotten how language works," Rowena spoke up, tearing her eyes away from Boyd. "Now, why don't you wait outside, Samuel? I need privacy and space to do the spell."

Sam swallowed back his terror that it wouldn't work. Slowly, he stepped around the blood and approached Dean. He couldn't resist grasping Dean's shoulder- Dean only looked back with mild interest. 

"Samuel," Rowena chided. 

Sam walked stiffly through the door, wondering how Dean would react to Boyd's method of dying. Even then, Sam couldn't really muster up any regret. Not even for the phantom taste of sulphur suddenly thick on his tongue.

* * *

“No, see, it’s the square one-”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, grabbing the Impala’s key.

Sam grinned, pleased at getting a rise.

Dean looked away, before he did something stupid. For some reason, he felt lighter, like he’d shed some kind of burden. He felt exposed, vulnerable- like the right touch or the right word from Sam would have him breaking down completely. In a good way.

The feeling scared him, actually.

“Hey, Sam,” he started as he began to drive. “About last night…”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sam tense. “You remember something?” He asked, casual and collected.

Dean shook his head. “No,” he answered truthfully. “That’s what I’m asking. What did I- I mean, did I say something? Something… Weird?”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

“Sam…” Dean took on a warning tone.

“Look, does it really matter?” Sam turned to him with a testy bitchface. “You didn’t do anything stupider than ride a mechanical bull- name’s Larry, by the way. But you weren’t completely yourself, so none of it counts.”

“Yeah, to you, maybe. But I’d like to know how badly I made a fool of myself,” Dean insisted.

Sam stared him down. “Dean,” he said firmly. “Let it go, man.”

“Sam-”

Sam flicked his fingers at empty air, and the radio turned on in response.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Little bitch,” he muttered. He glanced at Sam’s arm, the Mark hidden under layers of clothes. “How’s that thing treating you?”

“Like a gentleman,” Sam snarked. 

Dean shook his head. "Hey, I wasn't there for your half of the fight last night, but I did see the aftermath of it." The floor of the room they'd found Sam in had been slick with blood, a man's dead body lying mangled and broken at every joint, a complete contrast to the woman Dean had cleanly shot downstairs. 

Sam closed his eyes. "Okay, yeah, it… It acted up real bad last night," he admitted quietly. "You were… I was worried about you, and that must have triggered it. And I took it out on the witch."

Dean nodded. "Okay. But, still." He tried to keep his voice light. 'You're not usually one for all the gory killing. Even at your worst."

Sam laughed then, harsh and incredulous. "Dean," he admonished. "You've never seen me at my worst."

Dean frowned. "What do you- what are you talking about? Of course I have!"

Sam shook his head, still with that twisted parody of a smile. "You've never seen me at my worst," he repeated. "Because, you were never present for it."

Dean wanted to press further, but Sam turned away. This conversation was over. 

Dean thought about last night's mini-carnage. He couldn't remember anything from his stint of amnesia, and it made him wonder what he was missing. Had Sam's eyes turned yellow again? 

It didn't matter, he decided. They were both alive and together. That was the important thing. 


	9. Untamed and Unleashed

"What's up?" Sam leaned against the doorframe of Dean's room. 

Dean started, looking up from his duffel. "Oh, I was just coming to find you. I found a case. Haunting. Three hours from here."

"Uh, great, let me get changed-"

"No, wait-"

Sam paused. He knew what was coming.

Dean fumbled silently for a minute. "I think you should stay home for this one."

Sam stayed quiet. 

"I mean, man, ever since the Memento case, you've been kinda outta whack. Your powers are acting up, the whole room goes haywire when you have a nightmare. And let's not forget how you went Hannibal Lector on that witch two weeks ago… Minus the cannibalism."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, alright, Clarice."

Dean blinked, twitching in suspicion. "That's it?"

"You're right," Sam agreed with a shrug, ignoring the little niggle of discomfort. "I'm a loose cannon right now. We can't risk letting the Mark get worked up again. Besides," he said with a half-smile. "It's just a ghost. You can handle that without me." Like every instinct he had wasn't going crazy at the thought of letting Dean out of his sight. 

Dean looked relieved. "Yeah, exactly. Okay, so, I'll be back by tomorrow night, I think."

Maybe it was the Mark's way of claiming possession of Sam's brother, or maybe it was Sam's own fear of something happening to Dean again- he grabbed Dean's arm as he was about to walk out, grip strong so Dean couldn't break free without hurting him. 

Dean raised an eyebrow, wary. "Dude, come on. Lemme go."

Sam swallowed, looking down at his fingers wrapped around Dean's elbow. Restlessness rose up inside him, an urge to keep Dean in the bunker, keep him safe, protected from everything outside, keep him close to himself and leave his own mark on him so that nobody else would touch Sam's-

He let go. "Don't die." 

There was a beat of silence. Then Dean gave a small smile. "I'll check in whenever I can."

Sam nodded and watched him leave, pretending there wasn't a hollow space inside his stomach that made him think of all the worst things that could happen. 

He sighed and busied himself with reorganizing the filing system. 

Two hours passed. The phone didn't ring. Sam chewed his lip nervously. Maybe Dean had just forgotten.

He called anyway, getting voicemail. "Hey, uh, you said you were gonna call, I'm guessing you forgot…" He sighed. "Just… Check in, okay?"

A third hour passed with no response. By then, Sam had gone from concerned to scared. He dialled Dean's number, internally swearing, because if it turned out Dean was okay, then  _ scared _ was gonna turned to  _ pissed off _ and Sam would kill him himself, honestly-

Okay, probably not the best kind of thing to think about with the Mark humming in approval. 

The dial tone clicked off as the phone was picked up. 

"Dean!" Sam half-yelled. "What the hell-?"

" _ Hi, Sam _ ."

Sam's blood ran cold. "Lucifer," he whispered, chest feeling tight. With fear? Anger? Terror? "Where's Dean?"

Lucifer's chuckle was mocking. "Same Cage you busted me out of. You want him? Come get him." The call ended. 

Sam let his hand fall to the table. For several long seconds, he stayed frozen, because  _ Lucifer had Dean, he was going to kill him, worse than kill him, he was-!  _

He breathed out slowly. Unclenched his fists. Pushed away the instinctual fear that the Archangel had instilled in him so long ago. 

Then he called Crowley.

* * *

Sam met him outside the warehouse entrance to Hell. "Are you sure he's in there?"

Sam breathed out slowly. He was staring at the black bag in Crowley's hand. He knew what was inside it, could feel the draw to the brand on his arm. 

There was another draw too, the pull between the Mark and Lucifer. 

"Yeah," Sam said. "He's in there. He's got Dean."

Crowley just hummed. "Now, we have a deal, yes? You use the First Blade to kill Lucifer- which might not even work- and then you return it to me immediately."

Sam nodded. "The Blade isn't going to kill him. It's just to throw him off."

Crowley contemplated this silently for a minute. "You're going to use your own powers," he said as a moment of epiphany. 

Sam just gave him a hard look. 

Crowley met his gaze evenly. "You do know that fully realizing your powers, with true intention, and defeating Lucifer, would be tantamount to fulfilling Azazel's legacy and taking over Hell."

Sam took a deep breath. "I don't want your throne, Crowley. I just want my brother back."

He gave a pleased little smile. "You've always been my favorite, Moose," he said slyly and held out the bag.

Sam drew out the First Blade. The Mark burnt. A hushed voice stirred up in his mind, whispering of violence and bloodshed. The polished jawbone vibrated in his hand. 

Sam took a deep breath and forced it all down. 

Instead, he focused on the sparking electricity that always seemed to be settled at the top of his spine these days. It grew more intense now, shooting down and tickling the small of his back. His vision felt clearer, his breaths more full. He could taste the barest hint of sulphur in his mouth. 

And when he opened his eyes, he knew, instinctively, that they were yellow. 

Crowley, to his credit, did not even flinch. 

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Any words of advice?" He asked casually, mostly to hide the vestiges of fear hovering at the edges of his thoughts. 

He wasn't expecting an answer, but Crowley fixed him with a dark look. "You're scared of Lucifer. Understandable. But for all he's done to you, for taking your brother… Don't be scared. Instead…” He paused, obviously for drama. "Get angry, Sam."

That sounded like surprisingly not-so-terrible advice. 

Sam squared his shoulders and marched into Hell.

* * *

Dean woke up on a cement floor. He groaned automatically, his head throbbing like a bad hangover. He remembered getting out of the car, walking into the museum to speak with the curator about the case and then-

“Well, about time,” a familiar voice scoffed. “I was just about to wake you.”

Tense and angry, Dean slowly sat up, glaring at Lucifer, who was sitting on a set of stairs like a king, smiling benignly at him with Cas’ face. “What the hell am I doing here?”

Lucifer shrugged. There was a shattered mirror on the wall beside him, the reflection distorted and monstrous. “Waiting for your darling little brother."

Dean felt a stab of fear. “Listen, buddy,” he snarled. “I know you’ve got some sick fascination with Sam-”

“Which is not misplaced, at all, let me tell you,” Lucifer interrupted. “Because, Sam is, oh boy…” He chuckled. “Best I ever had. Take my word for it- you’ll never find out for yourself, anyway. And I don’t deal with rejection very well, you know.”

Dean swallowed back the urge to scream. “Where are we?” He asked instead.

“Oh, you know, the makeshift Cage where we had our private chat about Amara,” Lucifer said. “I just refurbished a little, some place Sam should recognize.”

Dean shook his head, getting to his feet slowly. He couldn’t feel any weapons on himself- except the angel blade, none of them would have done him any good, anyway. He wondered if Sam had noticed he was gone yet.

As if reading his mind, Lucifer said, “Oh, Sam called your cell a while back, by the way. Told him to meet us here, I hope that’s okay.”

“So, that’s your big plan?” Dean asked. Maybe if he kept the bastard talking, he wouldn’t be inclined to start in on the torture. “Lure Sam here, hurt me, hope he agrees to be your vessel again? Didn’t you already try that last time?”

“Yeah, but this time, he’s got the Mark,” Lucifer reminded casually. “He’s bound to answer to me, the rightful King of Hell. Of course-” he fixed Dean with a cold gaze. “-you were able to help him regain his own control last time. But this time… I’m better prepared.”

“Yeah?” Dean raised a cocky eyebrow. “What’s that?”

Lucifer just smiled- it looked wrong on Cas’ face. Then his face changed. He lifted his head, nose in the air like he was smelling something out. “He’s here.”

The sound of footsteps echoed into the stone chamber and Dean turned towards it almost immediately. Sam appeared, around a corner that had been invisible before, and Dean was struck by fear when he realized Sam was carrying the First Blade.

Sam’s eyes landed on him immediately. He was standing taller, something predatory about his gait, an added grace all about him. “Dean,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”

Dean couldn’t even muster up a smile. “Sammy,” he rasped. “What are you doing?” Even as utterly human as he was, he could sense that there was something different about Sam. He couldn’t pinpoint it, but it was there.

“What I have to,” Sam answered, eyes cutting to Lucifer.

The Archangel smiled brightly. “Well, now that we’ve got the Hallmark greetings out of the way; hey, Sam!”

Sam didn’t reply, just stared back. 

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “Answer me,” he ordered and there was an added reverb to his voice.

“I haven’t got anything to say to you,” Sam replied instantly.

Lucifer stalked closer to him.

“Stay away from him,” Dean snarled without thinking, instinctively taking a few steps towards Sam. 

A snap of Lucifer’s fingers and Dean felt his throat close up, the air disappearing from his lungs. He felt the unforgiving floor beneath his knees and palms, as he choked on empty, and he could dimly hear Sam saying something in a panicked way, and a cruel cackle, and Dean couldn’t-

Sweet oxygen flooded in and Dean gasped in relief. Vision swimming with black and yellow spots, he managed to look up: Sam had a look of apprehension on his face and his free hand outstretched, palm facing Dean. The First Blade was still in his other hand, the Mark dull. His eyes... 

Bright and unmistakably yellow, but the concern in them was still there.

Dean’s head spun. His eyes dropped close and he heard Lucifer say, “What was that? What did you just- how did you-?”

Dean lost consciousness.


	10. Putting A Pin In It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the fight scene was a cop-out. I'm very sorry if you were looking forward to an epic smackdown, but I chickened out. I'll try better next time :)

The mattress was soft and familiar. Dean shifted, eyes stubbornly closed, stuck somewhere on the last vestiges of a good dream. He could just make out the fragments of it on the back of his eyelids- deep dimples, a bony wrist under his curled fingers, the feeling of contentment and calm joy.

“Dean?”

Wait, his dreams didn’t usually include talking.

Dean groaned, eyes fluttering open. “What?” He grumbled. Then everything that had happened slammed back into the forefront of his memory. He sat up, head swimming for a second before he regained his bearings. He was in his room, on his bed, in clean sweatpants and a thin T-shirt. "Ow, my head," he mumbled. 

Sam was sitting in a chair too small for him, leaning forward and peering at him in concern. “Hey, you okay?” He asked.

Dean thought he should probably flinch away from his brother, the memory of him standing tall and radiating power too close to home. But… This was his brother. This was Sam.

“What happened back there?” He asked in a small voice. “What did you do?”

Sam closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “I, uh… I used my powers. It was… It was a gamble. I don’t even know how it…”

“Is Lucifer…?”

“Dead.” Sam nodded firmly. “I killed him. I killed him, Dean.” Despite the somber tone, there was a fierce joy etched into his face, a deep-set vindictiveness.

And despite his own worry, Dean felt pride. But… “How?”

Sam was immediately a little subdued. “My blood, the Mark… Take your pick, I don’t really know which one did the trick. But… I just thought about you. You were hurt and… I couldn’t do anything that wasn’t saving you, somehow. And, uh…” He shook his head in bemusement. “I’m now technically King of Hell. But, I figured that's not really for me and Crowley’s got things well in hand anyway.”

Dean closed his eyes, dragging a hand down his face, feeling the rough stubble that had grown in. “What about Cas?”

Sam finally smiled. “He’s okay. When Lucifer died, it was just him who did. Cas is okay. Out cold in one of the empty rooms, but okay.”

Dean huffed in mild amusement. “Talk about a miracle.”

“I know,” Sam agreed, shaking his head. 

Dean’s humor faded quickly. “Sam…” He didn’t know what to say.

“There’s no demon blood involved here,” Sam said quietly. “I swear to you-”

“I know, Sammy,” Dean assured in a murmur. He sighed. There were so many things that could be firmly construed as  _ not good, _ that he didn’t know where to start. The Mark was still on Sam’s arm, dark red against the tanned skin; his eyes had changed colour back in the Cage; he’d used his powers to an extent that he was now the de facto King of Hell, which would eventually reach the ears of people who might have it in for them…

“I need food,” he announced, swinging his legs off the bed. “Bacon. And I mean meat, none of that hippie vegetable crap.”

Sam looked confused, getting to his feet as Dean stood too. The movement brought them chest-to-chest, standing way too close to each other.

Dean ducked his head, rubbing his temples, if only to disguise the fact that having Sam this close affected him so visibly.

“We’re okay, Sam,” he said quietly. “Whatever happens next, we’ll deal with it, okay? Let’s just sit back and take a breather right now, yeah?”

“You’re really okay?” Sam sounded unsure. “With… All of it?”

Dean looked up and nodded. “I’m okay with it.”

Sam bit his lips, gaze drifting hesitantly. “And… My eyes…”

“They’re normal now,” Dean assured.

“Yeah, but if they turn yellow again-”

“Hey.” Dean reached out on instinct, grasping the back of Sam’s neck and squeezing gently. He smiled softly. “They were more gold than yellow, to be honest. Sparkly, glittery- girly, you know.” He smirked. “I’ll deal.”

Sam locked eyes with him for a long moment. Dean stayed frozen under the scrutiny, waiting, breathless. Then, Sam nodded, having found whatever he was looking for, and smiled back. “Yeah,” he agreed. “”We’ll deal.” He flicked his fingers- the door of the bedroom opened.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Show-off,” he complained good-naturedly and dragged Sam out with him.

They'd be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write this whole fic just for the line "Get angry, Sam,“? 
> 
> Yes, I did. 
> 
> Do I regret it? 
> 
> No. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with it, guys, hope y'all liked it XD

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: kassyscarlett


End file.
